The pond glimmered in the morning light, peaceful yet alive with movement. Ethan crouched at its edge, eyes following the fish-like creatures flickering beneath the surface. Their scales shimmered with faint colors, and tiny trails of mist swirled behind them as they moved. He knew better than to rush—any sudden motion, and they would vanish.
He held the sharpened stick he had prepared yesterday, knuckles white. Hunger gnawed at him, but panic wouldn't help. He waited, observing the patterns. When a small silver-scaled one drifted close enough, he plunged the stick into the water.
It was clumsy and imperfect—the fish darted, water splashing over his hands—but he managed to pin it. His heart pounded as he lifted it out of the pond. It was small, barely enough for a meal, but it was real.
Ethan built a tiny fire with collected twigs and leaves, careful not to make too much smoke. The fish sizzled over the flames, its scent strange and earthy, unlike anything he had eaten before. He ate slowly, savoring every bite. It wasn't gourmet, but it was nourishment, life earned through patience and careful observation.
Once he finished, he turned to the water. His bottle was nearly empty. He knelt at the edge, scooping fresh water, drinking cautiously, letting the cool liquid wash over his parched throat. He refilled the bottle, mindful not to spill a drop. Every sip reminded him that survival was a delicate balance: a mistake could cost him far more than a meal.
Ethan packed his few belongings carefully. He wrapped the lighter and notepad securely, tucked the granola bar and water bottle within easy reach, and made sure nothing would spill. Every item had a purpose; nothing could be wasted.
Then he paused, looking at his flimsy grocery bag. Slinging it over his shoulder wouldn't work—it would tear, and everything inside could scatter at the first stumble. He scanned the forest for materials. A few sturdy vines hung from nearby branches. Carefully, he wove them through the handles of the bag, twisting them into a crude strap long enough to sling across his shoulder.
It wasn't perfect, and it wasn't comfortable, but it would hold. He hoisted the bag over his shoulder, testing the weight. The reinforced handles dug slightly into his skin, but it stayed secure. A small smile tugged at his lips. Improvisation: 1, plastic bag: 0.
One last glance at the pond—a temporary sanctuary, a place to rest, observe, and survive. But staying longer would be foolish. Water drew life, and life could be dangerous.
With cautious steps, Ethan moved away from the pond, the bag slung over his shoulder. He kept low, careful not to disturb the forest around him. The small stream that fed the pond ran nearby, and he followed it, hoping it would guide him downstream—toward new sources of food, water, or perhaps signs of civilization.
The forest stretched endlessly ahead, alien and beautiful, but also dangerous. Ethan tightened his grip on the bag, feeling the weight of responsibility settle in his chest. He had survived. He had eaten. He had water. And now, he had to keep moving.
Because in this world, survival didn't pause—and neither could he.